


Icicles Melt in Summer

by Shadow_sensei



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Hair Salon, Budding Relationship, Flirting, Hair Salon AU, Hair stylist!Yuuri, M/M, Model AU, hair cuts, model!victor, self indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_sensei/pseuds/Shadow_sensei
Summary: Victor Nikiforov. Oddly, no matter how many times Yuuri repeats the name to himself, it still sounds beautiful, the r rolling off his tongue and the v melting on the tips of his lips like a mint. But more to the point, Victor Nikiforov, model for the Agape shoe and accessory line and face of Stammi Vicino Menswear, is sitting in one of his chairs.Or, the one where model Victor Nikiforov is searching for his raison d'être in Brooklyn, New York, and finds much more than that in a small, jasmine-scented hair salon.





	1. Yu-topia

**Author's Note:**

> Here's what I've been working on, and my first written contribution to the Yuri!!! on Ice fandom <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here: [@dystopiansushi](http://dystopiansushi.tumblr.com/)  
> And on deviantart here: [@galaxychix](http://galaxychix.deviantart.com/)
> 
> Please leave comments and tell me what you think!

_9:30 am. Monday, July 1 st._

In the back of the hair salon, Yuuri Katsuki kneels to light a stick of jasmine incense, placing it delicately in a dish next to a photograph of a small poodle, cradled in the arms of his younger self. _VIC-CHAN_ is carved into the frame, with seven year-old Yuuri’s shaky block print. He smiles, but he often misses him. He misses the feel of his fur—always soft, with cherub-like curls that shone golden in the sunlight.

Yuuri misses the kisses, too—the wet, sloppy kisses that he would be greeted with as he got home without fail. Mari, his sister, is affectionate, but her love comes mostly in the form of brief hugs and curt orders lined with hints of sweetness. His parents are very caring, but they don’t live in Brooklyn anymore; they’ve left the place to Mari and Yuuri and live in Japan, and so the loss of Vic-chan’s presence is one that hit him hard.

It’s been a month since Vic-chan died, a month since Phichit, his best friend who works at the Asian market across the street, gave him the incense. Now, the hair salon always smells like jasmine, and Yuuri thinks of his dog often. He hasn’t had the courage to get another. He continues to cut hair, day by day.

He watches as Minami, who works at the desk, turns the sign over on the door so that it reads _OPEN_ , then settles back into his seat. Yuuri ducks into the storage room, and sees that they’re running out of conditioner. He’ll ask Minami later to place an order for a new brand.

The door chimes as the first customer of the day arrives. This person made an appointment yesterday, according to Mari. He’ll take care of it. She gets here later on Mondays.

He hears an audible gasp from Minami, and assumes he saw another spider. There have been a few spiders lately. He’ll remind Minami to dust the corners.

As Yuuri finishes checking the stock in the back, he hears Minami settling whoever it is down into one of the chairs, a process that takes a much shorter time than it usually does. For some reason, Minami is being more efficient today, yet he finds it odd that he isn't being his usual chatty self. But when Yuuri looks up, Minami is scrambling toward him with a look on his face that screams of nothing but pure astonishment (or is it terror?), his eyes darting frantically between Yuuri and the person in the salon.

“Minami? Is something wrong?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead choosing to grapple at his face wildly, caught in what seems to be crazed amazement.

“Minami?” repeats Yuuri, confused. “Who is that?”

Minami stares up at him, eyes so wide they threaten to bulge out of his skull.

“ _Go. See,_ ” he whispers conspiratorially.

Still mildly perturbed, Yuuri acquiesces, and opens the door.

Yuuri isn’t quite sure what he’s getting into when he steps out of the storage room.

He has to blink a few times before understanding that what he’s seeing is reality.

He has to strain his ears, which have been deafened by an incessant ringing of panic, to comprehend that this customer is saying good morning to him.

Victor Nikiforov is sitting in one of his chairs.

Victor Nikiforov. Oddly, no matter how many times he repeats the name to himself, it still sounds beautiful, the _r_ rolling off his tongue and the _v_ melting on the tips of his lips like a mint. But more to the point, Victor Nikiforov, model for the Agape shoe and accessory line and face of Stammi Vicino Menswear, is _sitting in one of his chairs_. Granted, he’s wearing jean shorts and a plain white T-shirt, but Yuuri is fairly certain that his outfit probably costs more than what he makes in a month.

Families with grade-school children come to this hair salon. Yuuko comes in regularly with her triplets. Victor Nikiforov _does not_ come to this hair salon.

Yuuri doesn’t know how much time it takes for his feet to start moving, but Victor Nikiforov’s smile is blinding him and gluing his shoes to the floor.

Yuuri doesn’t know if he’s even greeted him. He’s pretty sure that even if he had indeed said, “Welcome to Yu-topia,” he wouldn’t have remembered it.

At least he doesn’t scream (he thinks).

But a dozen photos of Victor Nikiforov are hanging on the wall, because his hair has been one of his references for cuts for years. There are pictures of his face and his hair from every angle, and now the Victor Nikiforov on the chair is glancing at the Victor Nikiforovs on the wall as if everything is normal, and _smiling_ , and Yuuri doesn’t know what to do.

“I’m Victor,” says Victor Nikiforov.

“I know,” says Yuuri. He wants to punch himself.

He tries to pretend that Victor Nikiforov is not chuckling at him, and fails miserably.

Yuuri clears his throat. Words don’t come out the first time, and he tries again. “Sorry,” he attempts weakly. “I’m Yuuri. I’ll be your hair stylist today.”

Victor Nikiforov’s hair is beautiful. It reaches his waist in a cascade of silvery locks, like a river flowing in the winter just before freezing over. He is now standing up, with his arm extended. Yuuri is still wondering whether or not he is simply a product of his lack of sleep and terrible eyesight.

Victor Nikiforov smiles, and Yuuri’s heart soars. It doesn’t matter whether or not this is real. He’s going to take advantage of this moment.

Yuuri takes a bit too long to realize that he is holding out his hand for him to shake. _Victor Nikiforov,_ holding out his hand to _Yuuri_. The idea isn’t fully processed before Yuuri instinctively grasps his hand. His skin is warm. This is a terrible observation, because it’s the middle of the summer, and of course his skin is warm. Yuuri thinks his brain might be short-circuiting, and that after twenty-four years of working perfectly well, it has finally given up on him.

Victor Nikiforov does not grip his hand with force. His hold is more comforting than anything else, as he looks at Yuuri directly in the eyes, in a way that makes him unable to look away. The salon is empty except for them and Minami, and yet it feels full. Victor Nikiforov’s eyes sparkle.

“I’d like a haircut,” says Victor Nikiforov, with a barely noticeable Russian accent. He sits back down into the chair.

“You’ve, um. You’ve come to the right place,” says Yuuri, trying to regain his composure. “A trim?”

“I want to cut it all off.”

Yuuri isn’t quite sure he’s heard right. “You… what?”

“I want to cut it all off,” repeats Victor.

“All… all of it?”

“Yes,” replies Victor with a rueful smile. “I need a change.”

Yuuri must first process the fact that _Victor Nikiforov is cutting off all of his hair_ before even being able to _think_ about the fact that he himself will be the one cutting it.

Yuuri doesn’t think he’s qualified for this. He’s about to make the most drastic change in the appearance of his favorite model in said model’s lifetime, and he’s armed with not much more than a pair of old scissors and a brush that his mother gave him as a gift for opening the salon. It sounds like the start of a bad joke. He’s not sure if this is a dream come true or a nightmare.

“You’ve had long hair for a long time.”

Victor looks up at him. “I’ve always had long hair. I’ve never cut off more than a few inches.”

Yuuri knows this. He owns Victor’s photobook, which has some pictures from his childhood. He won’t admit this, of course. (He also knows Victor’s birthday. December 25th. And the name of his dog.) This change is shockingly sudden.

“I think you know that I’m a model,” says Victor. His eyes are smiling.

Yuuri blinks. “Yeah.”

Is he being made fun of? Probably. He wouldn’t be surprised. Here he is, a regular guy in his regular shop who happens to be a fan of Victor Nikiforov, the very man who _incidentally is sitting_ —

 “I haven’t told anyone that I’m cutting my hair off.”

Oh. _Oh._

Yuuri is startled. He is the first one to know about this. He is the one who will orchestrate this change in Victor Nikiforov’s appearance. He is a bit overwhelmed.

“That’s… wow,” murmurs Yuuri.

“Indeed.”

Yuuri notices that Minami is staring at them.

He’s going to kill Mari for not warning him in advance that Victor Nikiforov was coming to Yu-topia.

“Um… Do you want me to shampoo and condition your hair first?” It’s difficult to get back into the normal routine when Victor’s piercing blue eyes are staring into his, submerging him, drowning him, and he’s not sure whether he wants to desperately escape the gaze or hold it for as long as possible.

“Yes please,” replies Victor.

Yuuri turns the chair so that Victor’s back is facing the mirror. Delicately, he drapes the silver hair into the basin, the model’s neck resting on a towel. His hair is slightly knotted, but it untangles itself easily between his fingers. _Beautiful_.

“This place smells really good,” Victor comments.

“That’s the incense.”

“What kind?”

“Jasmine,” replies Yuuri as he turns on the water. He lets himself concentrate on the task at hand, and tries to view Victor Nikiforov as simply another customer. This definitely works better when Victor isn’t looking at him.

“Do you know where I can get some?”

Victor Nikiforov is asking Yuuri for advice. (Even if it’s for something as small as this.) Yuuri hopes that this effect that Victor has on him will wear off within the few hours that he is here.

“My friend works at the store across the street. They sell some there.”

“Perfect.”

Yuuri massages shampoo into Victor’s hair. “Please let me know if I’m hurting you or anything,” he manages after a few moments.

“On the contrary, Yuuri,” says Victor, and Yuuri can see him smiling in the mirrors on the other side of the room. “You’re being very gentle.” His eyes close delicately. “Where I used to go, it always felt like the hairdresser was trying her best to see how hard she could pull without tugging everything out.”

Yuuri pauses, flattered. “Thank you.”

He continues massaging Victor’s scalp and nape, feeling the moments when Victor takes deep breaths and lets them out slowly.

“This feels nice,” says Victor after a few minutes, and Yuuri’s heart quivers.

“Why did you change?” asks Yuuri as he squeezes conditioner onto his palm. “Hair salons, I mean.”

“The other one is much further from where I live.”

“Why Yu-topia in particular?”

“You’re rated one of the best in Brooklyn,” says Victor matter-of-factly.

Yuuri raises his eyebrows in surprise. He wasn’t aware of this, and a bubble of warm pride expands in his chest. “I didn’t know that,” he says.

Victor doesn’t answer immediately, but hums appreciatively. “I have a feeling you’ll meet my expectations.”

Victor Nikiforov is undeniably a charmer _._ Yuuri is shaken.

He dries Victor’s soft hair in a large towel, and takes the scissors. “Did you have a style in mind?” he asks as he turns him back to face the mirror.

He hopes that Victor won’t ask for something too complex. Not that he can’t do it, but he’s afraid that if he makes even the slightest mistake, he’ll have all of Stammi Vicino at his heels, and he’ll lose his job and probably his sanity. Maybe he’s lost it already, which might explain Victor being here.

No, Victor is real. His hair, at least, wet strands slipping through his fingers, is real.

Victor shows him a picture on his phone. “I was thinking something like this.”

“Oh,” breathes Yuuri, relieved. He’s done this before. Victor isn’t asking for a mohawk with shaved shooting star designs on the sides of his head; it’s just… a pretty normal cut. “That’s fine.”

“Perfect!” says Victor.

Yuuri takes a strand of Victor’s hair, placing it in between the blades of his scissors. He’s reaching into a perfect bouquet of flowers and picking some out, hoping that the arrangement will be just as perfect afterwards. This metaphor doesn’t make him feel any better, just mildly terrified. He should stop making metaphors.

Deep breaths deep breaths breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out—

Here he goes. He’s beginning.

 _Snip_.

There’s no going back. He continues. Victor says nothing. Yuuri actively avoids his eyes, keeping himself grounded as his scissors steadily move across the curtain of Victor’s hair, which falls to the floor like melting icicles.

 

_9:55 am._

There is more than a foot and a half of silver hair lying on the tiled floor, and Victor Nikiforov now has a bob.

“I look like a flapper,” says Victor, and Yuuri breaks, laughing.

Suddenly Victor is laughing with him, and it feels brilliant, and there is sunlight shining through the front windows and into Victor’s eyes—and Yuuri has always known Victor was beautiful, but _this._ This is ethereal, and Minami is giggling across the room, and Yuuri can’t remember a time recently when he has felt this warm and _good_ inside.

“That’s it,” says Yuuri, his face impassive. “You’re done.”

“What?”

The shocked look on Victor’s face is all Yuuri needs to start laughing again. “I was kidding, oh god, Vic—um, I mean—”

“Victor is fine,” smiles Victor.

Yuuri tries it. “Victor.” It feels odd, but in a positive way. “Victor, you looked so shaken—”

And then they’re laughing again, and it’s been half an hour since Victor’s arrived, but Yuuri still cannot believe this is happening to him.

 

_10:30 am._

“Shorter on that side, Yuuri,” says Victor, as if they’ve known each other for years.

“Okay.”

He snips away a few more strands.

“That’s good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Blowdry? It’s almost dry, but if you’d like…”

“Yes, please.”

 

_10:45 am._

Yuuri spins him around slowly, examining, inspecting. He’s impressed with himself. It hasn’t stopped crossing his mind that he’s just cut off all the hair that graced the cover of last month’s acclaimed _Gold & Silver Styles_ magazine. But Victor looks so different and yet is still the same despite the change, and he is stunning.

“Oh, Yuuri,” breathes Victor, a hand moving up to cover his mouth.

Oh no. _Victor hates it_. Yuuri is terrified that he’s made a terrible mistake, and his chest constricts painfully. Victor wants his long hair back. Yuuri should never have agreed to cut it, but he’s always learned to go with whatever the customer says; but this is Victor Nikiforov, so does it really count—

“I love it.”

Yuuri feels his chest unknot itself as the relief hits him like a bullet. “I… Good. That’s good. Thank you.”

Victor smiles, threading his fingers through his new bangs experimentally. He reaches up both hands, pushing his hair back, then lets out a soft laugh.

“I’ll have to get used to not having to tie it back,” he says.

“It really suits you,” pipes Minami.

“Ah, thank you!” He pauses to turn to Yuuri. “Do you think it suits me?”

Everything suits Victor. Yuuri bets that he would, in fact, be able to pull off the mohawk with the shooting star designs, but this cut brings attention to his eyes and his jawline, and his neck looks like it would feel like silk under his touch, and—

“Yuuri?”

“Oh. Yes, definitely.” Yuuri feels his ears heating up.

Victor’s face crinkles into a pleased smile, and he opens his mouth to say something when his phone rings. He reaches into his back pocket with a frown.

“Ah, Yakov, hello,” he says. A pause. “No, no, I’m at the hair salon.” Another pause, and Yuuri can make out the voice of a man on the other line, who sounds mildly irritated. “No, not Georgi’s, another hair salon.” The man seems to yell something at Victor, but the model smiles. “I’ll see you later, Yakov.” Yuuri hears a gruff sound of agreement. “I can make it next week, by the way.” Yakov speaks again. “Yes, it’s fine. I’ll see you.”

“That was my agent,” explains Victor apologetically. “He wanted to know where I was.” He clears his throat. “He wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing anything rash.”

“Are you?”

“Absolutely not,” scoffs Victor.

Yuuri snorts inelegantly.

“Oh,” says Victor. “Let me go pay.”

Yuuri is about to brush it off, forgetting for a moment that Victor is, in fact, just another customer—at least, for as long as he is in Yu-topia.

After dealing with Minami, who takes the opportunity to take a few selfies with him, Victor makes his way back to Yuuri.

“You know, you’re very talented.”

“I’m not talented, I just cut hair,” answers Yuuri. His brain is screaming. “Very regularly,” he finishes weakly. It’s impossible to think.

“If someone else had cut my hair, do you think I would have liked it as much the moment I saw it for the first time?” Victor muses.

“Um… Probably?”

“I don’t think I would have, Yuuri,” replies Victor softly, and his hand is reaching out to Yuuri’s face, his thumb moving to gently caress his cheek for a brief moment—until he pulls away as if he’s been burned.

“Sorry,” breathes Victor, his voice trembling nearly imperceptibly. “You, um. You had some hair on your cheek.”

Yuuri’s heart is beating so fast he almost thinks it’s stopped. “It’s okay,” he replies. They don’t break eye contact for a few moments, and if the world had ended at that moment, Yuuri probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Then Victor tears away his gaze, hurriedly beginning to fish through his pockets. He rushes over to Minami, where he borrows a pen to scribble something hastily onto a piece of paper, then comes back. Yuuri is still a bit bewildered as Victor takes his hand and places the paper into it along with a crumpled bill, but he takes it and unfolds it nonetheless.

He is shocked when he sees a phone number scrawled onto a post-it note, and looks up to find Victor anxiously staring at him.

“Are you… Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” asks Victor.

“The salon is closed on Tuesdays,” replies Yuuri.

“Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to grab a coffee with me?” asks Victor quickly.

Yuuri's eyes widen. His expression morphs into a coy smile. “I’m more of a tea drinker myself.”

“Oh.” Victor pauses. “They have tea there.”

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of Starbucks,” says Yuuri, biting his lip to keep from grinning widely. He’s not sure where this sudden onset of confidence comes from, but Victor Nikiforov is flustered and Yuuri is—well, his stomach is in knots, but for once it’s not entirely because he’s nervous. He honestly doesn't even have anything against Starbucks.

“I’m not thinking of Starbucks,” says Victor, who cracks a lopsided smile.

Yuuri laughs. “I’d like to grab a tea with you as you grab a coffee not at Starbucks.”

Victor beams, his silver hair catching in the sunlight. “I’ll text you the address?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Victor leaves a minute later, waving to Yuuri and thanking Minami.

Yuuri crashes down into the nearest chair, then looks down at his hand again. He is holding a hundred-dollar bill and Victor Nikiforov’s phone number.

He quickly realizes that Victor cannot, in fact, text him the address when _he_ is the one holding Victor’s phone number.

He also realizes with a jolt that he is holding a hundred-dollar bill, which is definitely not the ordinary twenty percent tip that customers usually give. How on Earth he deserved this, he has no idea.

“Christ, Yuuri,” whistles Minami. “He’s got it bad.”

“He’s got what bad?” asks Yuuri blankly, still staring at the two objects in his hands.

Minami groans audibly.

“Oh,” says Yuuri when it clicks. “I mean... I don't know. Do you think so?”

“Yuuri, you _did_ have your glasses on, didn’t you?”

He checks. “Um. Yes.”

Minami laughs. “Oh, Yuuri.”

Yuuri flushes. He looks out the window to see Victor Nikiforov making his way across the street, and his eyes widen. He calls Phichit, who answers after a single ring.

“Hey, Yuuri, what’s up?”

“Phichit, listen to me.” He's speaking fast, but only because Victor will walk in  _any second now_ and as a friend, Yuuri wants to make sure that Phichit is at least slightly mentally prepared.

“Huh?”

“Okay, so Victor Nikiforov is about to walk into your store to buy incense, and I just need you to not freak out, okay?” 

“What?!”

“Victor Nikiforov is about to buy incense at your store.”

“Yuuri, what are you talking about, that’s—” Phichit breaks off.

“Hello?”

“Oh my god, Yuuri, he’s here.”

“Yeah. Okay, I have to go, so please try to be calm?”

“Yuuri, what did you—”

“I’ll catch you up later, okay? I’ll bring Chinese tonight.”

Yuuri hangs up. Mari is coming in soon, and he has more customers to take care of.


	2. Milk and Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the support on the first chapter!! I'm so grateful to everyone who left comments and kudos <3 <3  
> Please leave me some more comments down below, I love to know what you think!!  
> Again, here's my tumblr if you want to chat or ask me things about the fic! [@dystopiansushi](http://dystopiansushi.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [@del-for](http://del-for.tumblr.com/) made amazing art of shooting star mohawk Victor, which you can find [here](http://del-for.tumblr.com/post/158609144449/i-couldnt-resist-dystopiansushi)!!! It's awesome

_7:45 pm. Monday, July 1 st._

Yuuri has ten texts on his phone, all from Phichit. All of which he chooses not to answer, except the first one, where he swears to tell him nothing until he can tell it all in full and in person.

Yuuri fumbles with his keys, a bag of warm and strongly scented Chinese take-out balancing precariously on his knee. He’s knocked on the door several times, but nobody’s answered, and he suspects that the loud sounds of the TV have something to do with it. He finally manages to fit the right key into the lock, and opens the door. Yuuri removes his shoes, not bothering to untie them, and pushes them unceremoniously with his feet into the corner by the entrance to the apartment. He breathes in, and it’s always the same scent that greets him, that of citrus, and faintly, of socks. Right now, the Chinese seems to be overpowering the socks, at least.

It’s small, but it’s home.

Phichit is reclining back in the sofa, looking as comfortable as he would be in his own apartment. His tank top rides up as he scratches his stomach absentmindedly. “I was just about to open up for you,” he calls.

“Of course you were.”

“Mmhm,” replies Phichit, turning toward Yuuri and grinning brightly.

“Are you watching Rupaul?”

“Yup,” affirms Phichit.

“When you’re here, you’re always watching Rupaul.”

“That’s not true,” says Phichit, affronted. “I was watching Cupcake Wars yesterday.”

Yuuri snorts.

“But that’s not important!” cries Phichit, jumping up and turning off the TV. “Number one, Victor Nikiforov—” Phichit takes a deep breath as his tone rises in intensity— “came to my store today. _The store where I work at,_ ” he repeats, for clarification. “I can’t—is this real life, Yuuri?”

Yuuri, in all honesty, is still in shock by this whole situation. “I think so?”

“I took a _selfie_ with him, Yuuri!” yells Phichit, and Yuuri has to rush over in order to keep him from angering the neighbors. “And he had short hair! When the hell did Victor Nikiforov get short hair?”

Yuuri knows exactly when Victor Nikiforov got short hair. “Um… What was your number two?”

“There is no number two,” says Phichit. “The _number one_ was for dramatic effect.” He pauses. “No, wait, the number two is that you brought food and gossip in that paper bag, and I’m starving for both.”

“Okay, okay, okay, come on, sit down.”

Yuuri places the still-steaming containers of orange chicken and shrimp and rice onto the table. Plates are ignored, and Phichit sits down, inhaling the sweet chili and soy for a brief moment before sharply aiming his gaze at Yuuri.

“I can explain,” says Yuuri.

Phichit seems incredulous. “You can—okay. One sec. You knew that Victor Nikiforov was coming to my store, Yuuri. You knew what he was going to buy,” he says, counting on his fingers. “He asked me if I was your friend, and then _smiled_ at me!? You—honestly, what the hell did you do, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s heart is pounding. Victor Nikiforov has made the conscious effort to ask Phichit about him. This is something Victor probably wouldn’t do if he wasn’t interested in him. Right? Yuuri checks his back pocket, and yes, the phone number is still there, the small paper folded into a small wad.

Phichit is still yelling. “—and he knows you! How does he know you?”

“I cut his hair this morning.”

Phichit stares at him for a good ten seconds, unblinking. “I’m going to need about five more pounds of pork fried rice if I want to digest this story, Yuuri.”

“No,” deadpans Yuuri.

“Fine. Keep your rice. I still want the story.”

It’s an easy story to tell. Yet it’s the nuances—the electricity that flowed from one gaze to another, the _look_ in Victor Nikiforov’s eyes as he pressed his number into Yuuri’s hand, the shimmering vibrations of his voice as he complimented him—that are more difficult to put into words. Yuuri tells the story as it was, without any nuances. He’s always been afraid of misinterpretation. Afraid of coming to the wrong conclusion. With Victor Nikiforov, he doesn’t want to make this mistake.

 

_7:55 pm._

“You have his _number?!_ ” exclaims Phichit. “He asked you out! This is incredible, Yuuri!”

Yuuri’s hands are trembling, and he reaches one up to cover his mouth, which is quickly spreading into a smile. “It’s just one coffee,” he says. He’d like to believe it’s more. He knows it’s probably not.

“Yeah, just one coffee. _With Victor Nikiforov!_ Listen, even if it _is_ just one coffee, you’re not passing this up.”

“Who said I’m passing this up?” Yuuri is most definitely not passing this up. He’s just hovering on the brink of terror. He has learned to make this distinction.

“One thing though,” says Phichit, thoughtfully.

“Hm?” asks Yuuri, his mouth filled with chicken.

“We have to make sure that’s actually Victor Nikiforov’s number.”

“We have to—” Yuuri’s heart drops, and he swallows, hard. “You think he would—?”

“I mean… I don’t _think_ so. When he was at my store he really didn’t look like he would pull something like that, but…”

“How do I… make sure?”

“Only one way,” replies Phichit confidently. “Text it. You’re gonna have to text it anyway, since he doesn’t have your number. But don’t say your name or anything.”

“What do I say, then?”

“Just— _Hey_.”

“Just that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, see what he answers.”

Suddenly, Yuuri is worried. What if Victor was just playing with him, tossing him around with that _look_ and that quiet caress, only to give him a fake number and false hope? His hands are sweaty. The A/C is on, but the steam from the food becomes a source of discomfort. What if Victor _was_ just toying with his emotions, knowing that he was a fan?

Phichit’s voice cuts through. “ _Yuuri_. Hey. Just text him.”

“I—” Yuuri’s voice cracks. He clears his throat.

“Hey. Yuuri,” says Phichit, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “He gave you a hundred-dollar tip. We’re just making sure here. Okay?”

Yuuri breathes in. He remembers the tip. He quickly checks his wallet, and it’s still there. Okay. He takes out his phone, and the number in his back pocket.

He texts it.

**Hey!**

“Yeah, good.” Phichit leans over his shoulder. “Wow! He sure replies fast!”

There is a text bubble underneath Yuuri’s text, indicating that Victor (or not-Victor?) is writing something. It’s barely been five seconds. Yuuri’s stomach unclenches, a little.

**Hey, is this Yuuri? I have everyone else listed under my contacts**

A grinning emoji follows this.

 **Yeah,** texts back Yuuri, relieved and exhilarated, and not entirely sure the world is real.

“Oh my god,” breathes Phichit. Yuuri bites the inside of his lower lip.

“Tell him to take a selfie,” orders Phichit.

“Oh. Right.”

**My friend wants you to take a selfie, he wants to make sure it’s you**

The reply comes in a heartbeat. **Oh, sure :D**

A picture of Victor Nikiforov, soft lighting framing his neatly styled short hair, appears on the screen within moments. A sparkling grin brightens his features, and he’s standing in a kitchen, in what appears to be his home, and Yuuri doesn’t think that he can deny that it’s him. Yuuri smiles fondly.

 **That good?** texts Victor.

Phichit’s hand flies over his mouth as he lets out an incomprehensible string of syllables. “Yuuri, do you know how many people would kill for that number?”

Yuuri grins. “Are we convinced?”

“We’re convinced.”

 **It’s good,** affirms Yuuri. **Thanks!**

He enters Victor into his contacts, and stares at his phone in bewilderment. Victor texts back nearly immediately. **So, are we still on for tomorrow?**

“Are we still—you’re going on a date with Victor Nikiforov!”

“Phichit, stop staring at my texts.”

“You’re going on a—”

“It’s not a date, we’re just getting coffee. And tea. We’ve gone over this.”

“Yeah, yeah…” sighs Phichit. “Well, you have to answer him. You can’t just leave freaking Victor Nikiforov at _Read 8:10 pm._ Unless you’re playing hard to get. Is that our goal? Are you playing hard to get?”

“ _No_.”

Yuuri proceeds to text back. **Yup, sounds good**

**Perfect :D :D the place is called Plisetsky’s Café, it’s a couple blocks down from the Brooklyn Bridge Park, do you need the full address?**

**Thank you! I’ll check online for the address, don’t worry**

**You sure?**

“Awww,” coos Phichit. “He wants to make sure you don’t get lost.”

“I thought I said to stop looking,” says Yuuri, but he can’t help blushing and grinning along with him.

“Fine, fine.”

**Yeah. I’ve lived here my whole life, it would take a miracle for me to get lost**

Victor is typing. Victor has stopped typing. Victor is typing again. Yuuri would give the rest of his dinner to Phichit if he could find out what is going through Victor’s mind right now. In the end, Yuuri gets a quick answer, and he can’t figure out if he’s disappointed or relieved.

 **Alright! I’ll see you there at 1:00?** asks Victor.

**Ok!**

**I love my new hair, by the way. Did you know?**

This time, Yuuri feels himself flushing scarlet, his ears heating up along with his cheeks, a wide smile forming of its own accord. Phichit sees this, and squeezes his arm encouragingly. “You’re incredible.”

“You saw what he wrote?” asks Yuuri, still staring at the screen. His hands are shaking. His jaw is shaking. He’s not hot, and he’s not cold, but he’s also not sure that he’s really even feeling his face right now, because what he _is_ feeling is overwhelming and unnamable, and its crashing over him like waves, drowning him.

“You told me not to look,” says Phichit. He backtracks. “But yes, I saw. He really does look good with that hair.”

Yuuri hums in agreement. He’s lost touch with reality, and words are difficult to form out loud.

 **Thank you,** texts Yuuri. **I’ll see you tomorrow!**

**See you!**

This is immediately followed by a winking emoji. Yuuri holds the phone close to his chest, and Phichit sits back down at his chair.

“My very own best friend,” begins Phichit, grinning. “Going out with Victor Nikiforov.”

This time, Yuuri doesn’t even bother correcting him.

 

_12:15 pm. Tuesday, July 2 nd._

Yuuri doesn’t know what to wear. He scours his closet, looking for something worthy of a tea with Victor Nikiforov.

In the end, he gives up, because nothing is worthy of a tea with Victor Nikiforov. He tries his best to dress nicely anyway, and decides on a pair of navy blue shorts that he hasn’t worn in a while. They’re his nice shorts, cut off just above the knee and ironed so that the pleats are neat and clean, but they’re a bit tight. Yuuri hopes this doesn’t show too much. He pulls on a striped tee-shirt, and a white woven belt. The belt is more or less to make a statement. His pants are most definitely staying up, resting on his hips snugly, and accenting—

Yuuri flushes, and considers changing shorts.

But he checks the time, and he checks his closet, and he really does not have the time to iron out his other good shorts. He’s walking to the café, which he gives himself a good thirty minutes for. He would rather get there early than late, but this means that he has to leave very soon. He checks himself.

Shorts? Check.

Shirt? Check.

Hair? Not check. He hasn’t even combed it. It’s dried after his shower in a messy, spiky shape, and not in an on-purpose way. He frowns as he brushes it back, applying gel and hairspray until it stays in place, a few loose strands hanging over his forehead. The gel smells fruity, and suddenly he is hyperaware of everything—the growing dark circles under his eyes, the slight chub on his cheeks, the small indentations on his nose for the first few minutes after he takes off his glasses. The feeling nags at him, and he wills it to go away. It doesn’t.

It’s just a coffee. He told Phichit this yesterday, so he should be able to tell himself this too. It’s nothing to worry about. He puts his glasses back on, runs a hand over his hair. Okay.

But even as he slips on his shoes, and walks down the stairs, the feeling follows him like a shadow, and he has to take a few deep breaths before stepping out the door.

 

_12:50 pm._

Yuuri successfully finds the café. He recalls seeing it a few times in the past, but has never gone inside. It’s a hot day, and a bead of sweat rolls down his neck and into his shirt. The café has large doors across nearly its entire front, and all of them are open. A low, black fence separates the café from the sidewalk, baskets of red and white geraniums hanging over it, the flowers blossoming radiantly. It’s beautiful. Among other things, Victor Nikiforov definitely has good taste.

Yuuri walks inside, and the walls are red brick, with black-and-white photographs of the city hanging above the tables. It’s a small place, but it smells strongly of coffee beans, and though the air is cooler thanks to the brick walls, it is still warm, the aromas of coffee and pastries blending together and enveloping him, calming him a bit.

Victor isn’t here yet, though. He has checked the tables. This is normal, because he’s ten minutes early. He sits at a table near the wall, and crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. He jiggles his knee under the table, then stops. He avoids the gaze of the teenager behind the counter. He checks his phone for the weather, the time, anything.

It’s a nerve-wracking five minutes before Victor comes in. He enters the café, searching the room with his brow furrowed until his eyes land on Yuuri, and his face morphs into a warm, inviting smile.

“Yuuri!”

“Victor,” breathes Yuuri, relieved. He looks impeccable, his hair parted neatly, bangs falling across his left eye artfully, flowing like molten silver. The cut really does look good, despite it being oddly jarring at first, considering how used he was to the long locks. Despite the fact that he cut it himself. Victor is wearing salmon pink shorts paired with a neat white polo, and sunglasses are delicately positioned atop his head.

“And I thought _I_ was getting here early!” exclaims Victor. His smile is such that his eyes form small arcs, nearly closed, as his heart-shaped lips spread wide. It’s comforting. “Have you ordered anything?”

“No, I was waiting for you,” says Yuuri.

“That’s sweet of you,” says Victor.

Victor called Yuuri sweet he called him sweet he called him sweet he—

“Did you see? They do have tea here.”

“Oh, yes.” Actually, Yuuri hadn’t been paying much attention. But the feeling that had been weighing upon him before is almost completely gone, for which he is grateful.

“Come wait in line with me?” It’s not a request but a question. Yuuri makes a list in his mind of things he likes about real-life Victor Nikiforov. 1) Good taste. 2) He gives Yuuri the ability to choose.

“Sure,” answers Yuuri.

Victor holds out a hand to him, and Yuuri’s eyes widen as he hesitates before taking it, rising out of the chair as he does so. Victor glows, and Yuuri lets go as they move to stand in line. He hopes that Victor thinks the deep flush on ears is due to the heat and not… anything else. They stand close to each other, due to the limited room in the café. Victor’s upper arm presses against Yuuri’s for a moment, and Yuuri’s heart rate picks up. He knows that Victor can’t hear it, but somehow he wishes he could. Wishes he could know just how much he affects him.

But this is taking it a bit too far. Yuuri knows to make the distinction between his admiration of the model Victor Nikiforov and his current getting-to-know of Victor, the person. He doesn’t want to ruin this.

He can’t ruin this.

“Do you get stopped often on the street?” Yuuri asks. He regrets it immediately. It’s a bad conversation starter. It makes it sound like Victor is a criminal.

“Me?” says Victor absentmindedly. “Oh. Not as much as you’d think. People pay more attention to the female models than to the male ones, you know? They might know us more or less by face, but not by name quite as much as many women in the industry. You know Mila Babicheva, right?”

“Of course.”

“She’ll get stopped really often. Not as much for me. And not at all today, thanks to you!” Victor laughs, running his hand through his hair for emphasis.

“Ah, yeah. You’re welcome,” says Yuuri. They’ve reached the front of the line, and the blond teenager behind the register is gazing at them with a bored look.

“Victor,” says the teenager.

“Yuri!”

Yuuri turns to Victor, perplexed.

“Oh," says Victor, quickly realizing what the problem is. “Yuuri, this is Yuri. Yuri Plisetsky. Yuri Plisetsky, this is Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuri Plisetsky stares. “Two Yuri’s?”

“It would seem so,” says Yuuri.

“Hm,” replies Yuri Plisetsky. He turns back to Victor. “You have friends, Nikiforov?”

“I have _friends_!” exclaims Victor in false offense.

“Other than Chris?”

“I have—friends other than Chris.”

“Is Yuuri your friend?”

“No, we’re just acquaintances,” says Yuuri mildly, staring pointedly at his fingernails.

Victor gapes at him, and Yuuri tries to keep himself from bursting into laughter.

Yuri Plisetsky snorts.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Yuuri grins. “Are we friends?”

“ _Yes_.”

Yuri Plisetsky rolls his eyes, but then turns them toward Victor in shock. “Victor, when the _fuck_ did you cut your hair?”

“Language, Yuri. We’re customers, remember?”

Yuri Plisetsky glares.

“Yesterday. Yuuri cut it,” says Victor quickly.

Yuri stares at them, incredulous. “You a hair stylist, Yuuri?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Yuri looks down at the register. “It suits you, Victor.”

Victor grins widely. Yuri Plisetsky cringes.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me this year, Yurio!”

“Why. Are you calling me that.”

“To make the difference between the both of you! And it’s cute. Isn’t it a cute nickname, Yuuri?”

Yuuri snickers, then bites his lip. “It’s cute,” he deadpans.

“Don’t push it, Nikiforov,” says Yurio. “Or you,” he continues, addressing Yuuri. “And order a damn drink.”

Victor smiles. “You go first, Yuuri.”

“Oh. Um, I’ll have a Darjeeling.”

“Anything in that?”

“Milk and sugar, please.”

Yurio taps at the register screen. “You?”

“I’ll have a regular coffee,” says Victor. His eyes meet Yuuri’s. “With milk and sugar as well, please.” He doesn’t stop looking at Yuuri, his gaze trapping them both.

Yurio clears his throat and repeats the total price.

Yuuri takes out his credit card, but Victor holds out his hand to stop him. “No. My treat.”

“Victor, please—”

“ _Yuuri._ ”

Yuuri concedes defeat. “Next time, I’m paying.” He realizes with a jolt the implications of his words. “I mean—”

“Next time,” smiles Victor.

There will be a next time. Victor is radiant, and Yuuri’s heart sings.

“Come on, there are more people in line,” drawls Yurio impatiently. “I’ll call you up when your stuff is ready.”

“Thank you. _Yurio_.” Yuuri tries to wink, and fails. He will never be cool. Victor bursts out laughing, and Yurio grumbles incoherently under his breath.

 

_1:10 pm._

They both successfully get their drinks, and settle down into a small table, sitting perpendicularly to one another. It’s comfortable. Victor sips at his coffee peacefully.

“So how do you know Yuri?” asks Yuuri.

“His grandfather, who owns the café, knows Yakov, my agent, pretty well, so I was introduced to this place when Yakov wanted to meet with me a couple years ago, over coffee. I started coming pretty often, and got to know Yuri. I would help him with homework sometimes.”

“It’s a nice place.”

“Isn’t it?” agrees Victor. “I like Yurio too. He gives the café even more character.”

“Definitely,” says Yuuri, grinning. “He does seem sweet, under all that…”

“Sarcasm? Attitude?”

“Yeah,” laughs Yuuri.

“He is.”

They both steal a glance at Yurio, whose bored gaze has returned as he serves an old woman, and they giggle softly.

"I like your hair today, by the way," says Victor. "It looks nice on you. Not that it didn't look nice yesterday, of course."

Yuuri turns away, warmth rising up from his chest. "Thank you."

“Did you… did you always want to be a hair stylist?” asks Victor, turning back to Yuuri.

Yuuri laughs. “Not always, no,” he answers. “I wanted to be a fashion designer.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I would follow fashion religiously.” Yuuri smiles, looking down into his tea. “I would collect every issue of _Gold & Silver_.” _Among others_ , he finishes in his head. He still has the collection, which is growing.

Victor seems to hesitate a moment before opening his mouth again. “What was stopping you?” he asks.

“I can’t draw for my life,” chuckles Yuuri sheepishly. “And I didn’t have any original ideas.”

Victor consider this, and frowns. “I think you would have wonderful ideas.”

Yuuri laughs again, nervously, bringing his tea closer to his face so that the red that he is certain is tainting his cheeks seems to be coming from the steam. “I don’t know. Anyway, I’m happy with what I do. I went to beauty school, took over my parents’ salon, and things are going pretty well.”

“Mm.”

“Did… did you always want to be a model?”

“Yes,” says Victor. “But it wasn’t what I expected. Especially at first.”

“How so?”

“There’s no glamour in it at the beginning. You’re not known, and you spend a few nights in a row in a weed-scented room with people you’ve never met. And then you get to the show, and it lasts ten minutes, and you have to find a way to get back to the hotel in a city you’ve never been to.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not all bad, obviously. I did enjoy it, and met some nice people. Chris—you heard Yurio mention him earlier—I met him in one of those model rooms the agencies booked for us in the beginning. But with modeling, people come and go. I don’t stay in contact with many others in the industry.” He laughs uncomfortably. “Yurio wasn’t wrong to ask.”

“To ask if you have—”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri takes a few silent sips of his tea. Victor isn’t looking him in the eye anymore.

“Do you still enjoy it?” asks Yuuri abruptly. “Sorry, that’s really personal, I didn’t mean…”

“Modeling?” Victor looks up. “I don’t know, honestly.”

“You have a lot of fans, you know?” says Yuuri, and suddenly he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. “They’ll support you.”

A smile tugs at Victor’s his lips. “Are you one of them?”

Yuuri flushes, the heat reaching his ears and his neck. “I…”

“I’m glad,” says Victor, and his smile is back, bright and radiant, like snow reflecting the sunlight. “I was… I’ve been thinking of designing as well.”

Yuuri raises his eyebrows in surprise. “And what’s stopping _you?_ ”

“I couldn’t find my inspiration.”

Victor looks directly at Yuuri as he says this, his eyes soft and gentle and sweet, and Yuuri’s emotions blossom and grow and wrap around him like loosely coiled vines. Yuuri tugs at the collar of his shirt. It’s a nervous gesture.

Victor’s phone chimes. “It’s from Yakov,” he sighs. “He wants to meet with me later today. Probably about the shoot tomorrow.”

Yuuri’s stomach growls, and his eyes widen in embarrassment.

Victor’s eyes widen, but not in embarrassment. “Did you eat today?”

“A little,” replies Yuuri. He’s eaten a granola bar some hours ago.

“I’m getting us something,” declares Victor, rising from his chair. “Are you vegetarian?”

“No, but—Victor, you don’t have to—”

“It doesn’t matter, Yuuri, this is my treat—”

“Victor, I—”

“I’m hungry too, okay? I’m getting us pirozhki.”

“What?”

“Yurio’s grandfather makes the best pirozhki. They’re Russian meat-filled pastries.”

Yuuri’s stomach smiles.

“Fine,” he says, defeated. “But again, next time it’s on me.”

Victor gets in line, and returns in moments with a plate of pirozhki.

They’re delicious.

 

_1:55 pm._

“I’ll text you,” says Victor after they’ve finished.

“Okay,” says Yuuri.

“Will I see you around?” asks Victor.

“Will I see you again soon?” asks Yuuri at the same time.

“When are you free?” asks Victor.

“Evenings after seven thirty.”

A grin spreads across Victor’s features. “Dinner next Monday?”

“It’s on me.”

 

Yuuri’s smile doesn’t fade until after he gets home. The feeling from earlier is completely gone.


	3. Ignite, Illuminate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments and kudos! It means so much to me and really helps to get me writing! Please enjoy this one

_10:02 am. Wednesday , July 3 rd. _

Victor sits in his bedroom, bored. He stares at the shirts in his open closet, and they suddenly all look the same, organized by color, like rows of soldiers awaiting their orders.

Victor has no orders to give.

He’s a bit lost.

There are sketches crumpled into balls and lying on the floor, surrounding a marble bust that’s been leaning against his wall since January. The wads of paper line the shelves on the wall as well, taking up space beside a small figurine of himself that Chris gave him for his birthday. It apparently has an even better ass than Victor himself does. Out loud, Victor disagrees. On the inside, he does kind of see it. Kind of.

His phone buzzes from across the room. Victor leaps up to answer it, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

_1 message from Yakov_

Victor groans. _Of course_ it wouldn’t be who he had wanted it to be.

Of course it wouldn’t be Yuuri, he thinks. Yuuri, with his smile, and his glasses, and his hair, and his quiet humor _._

Yuuri hasn’t contacted him since they went out. Once, upon glancing at their previous texts, he had thought he had seen Yuuri typing something, but nothing had come of it, and he had concluded that he had simply been imagining it. Granted, it’s been less than a day, but—

Makkachin bounds in, his tail wagging wildly, and Victor smiles, kissing him on the mouth and scratching behind his ears. His phone buzzes again, and he sighs, reaching over to check the texts.

_10:05 am:_ **I don’t care about your hair anymore. You’re still going to the shoot.**

_10:07 am:_ **I still care about your hair. But you’re not going to be late to this again.**

Victor hastily types out a reply. **I’ll be there,** **don’t worry**

He’ll have to show the world his hair one day or another. Somehow he wishes that this once, he could keep it to himself, make it his secret, because people asking about his hair might lead to people asking about Yuuri, and he doesn’t want Yuuri to be violently thrust out into the fashion world in that way. He doesn’t want to stick him unwillingly in the public eye.

He doesn’t want to cancel Monday night’s dinner plans.

Yakov had yelled at him for a while yesterday about his hair before admitting that it looked alright, which Victor expected. Yakov will learn to accept this. Victor has left his long hair behind.

He doesn’t miss it, oddly. It was a bit off-putting at first, but he doesn’t miss it. Not at all.

He puts on a pair of sweatpants, a fitted navy blue tee-shirt, and heads out.

 

_11:35 am._

Yakov texts him again. **Where are you? Chris already got here 15 minutes ago.**

**Chris is here too?**

**Victor, were you listening to me yesterday?**

**Yes?**

**Just hurry up, damn it**

**I’m walking up the stairs, keep your hair on**

**Watch it, Victor.**

Victor chuckles and slips his phone back into his pocket. He continues upstairs to the studio.

He opens the door, and hears Christophe Giacometti scream even before he sees him.

“Hello,” says Victor cautiously.

“Hello?!” yells Chris. “Where did your hair go?”

“We told you this, Giacometti,” sighs Yakov, who rubs his forehead exhaustedly. “We warned you.”

“Doesn’t mean I believed it.”

“Nobody listens to me,” grumbles Yakov, and Victor smiles at him apologetically before turning back to Chris.

“My hair is in the past,” says Victor poetically, closing his eyes and flipping his new bangs to the side.

Christophe is, apparently, not buying it. He continues looking dumbfounded. “Victor, you cut your _hair_.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t even tell me?!” exclaims Chris. It doesn’t even take Victor half a second to realize that this, and not the act itself, is the main issue.

“I didn’t tell anyone, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Not even me,” mutters Yakov from the corner.

“Please tell me you’re at least keeping the silver,” Chris says.

Victor laughs. “I’m keeping the silver. That way no one will ever realize when I become old and gray.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “You’re twenty-seven, Victor.”

“Twenty-seven years closer to being old and gray.”

Chris snorts, finally breaking. “It does look good, though.”

“I think so too,” says Victor, and his ears heat up a bit, as he remembers Yuuri’s fingers working their way through his hair, massaging his scalp, delicately combing out the knots.

“Did you go to Georgi’s?” asks Chris.

“No.”

“I thought you were switching to Georgi’s.”

“I thought he was switching to Georgi’s too,” says Yakov.

“So where did you get it? They did a good job,” comments Chris.

“Secret!” Victor winks.

“Seriously? You look sexy. I want that look.”

Victor scoffs. “You already have that look.”

“You think I’m sexy, Victor Nikiforov?” purrs Chris, batting his eyelashes.

“Me? No. Your fans? Probably.”

“Harsh,” replies Chris, whistling. He pretends to clutch at his heart. Victor winks again. His signature move.

“You know, you were pretty shocked just two minutes ago,” comments Victor idly.

“That’s true. But you look good.”

“Thanks, Chris.”

“I still—I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

Victor smiles as he walks past him, squeezing his shoulder.

“I needed a change, Chris,” Victor says softly.

Chris looks at him for a few moments, eyebrow cocked. “Victor,” he calls.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve needed this for a while, haven’t you?”

Victor doesn’t answer.

He silently breathes a sigh of relief as one of the makeup artists pushes him lightly toward a small room off of the larger studio space, sitting him down in a chair in front of the mirror. The chairs at Yu-topia are more comfortable, in his opinion. It’s more homey there, more warm. Here, it’s cold. The air conditioning is blowing at full force and giving him goosebumps. He shivers as the makeup artist pins up his bangs, humming softly to herself. Victor needs a distraction. He decides to think of his date with Yuuri.

For the sake of his own daydream, he’ll use that term. It feels good as he mouths it, as he rolls it over in his mind, relishing in the crispness of the _d_ and the _t,_ and the tangy sweetness of the _a_. He hasn’t stopped thinking of his date with Yuuri. He can’t help it. He thinks of the smell of Yuuri’s hair, the shape of his glasses. The smile in his eyes. His laugh.

His shorts.

Victor’s ass may not be as nice as that figurine on his shelf, but Yuuri’s? Far superior. He holds back a grin.

Victor closes his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he’s developed a crush so fast. He must have been a teenager. It all feels so new, so exciting, so… terrifying. It gives him chills, makes him smile without meaning to, makes his chest hurt in a way that he doesn’t want to stop.

Chris sits down next to him, stares at him curiously. “Is something going on with your dog?”

“Makkachin? No, he’s been doing fine.”

“Is something—never mind.”

 

_12:35 pm._

“Stand back to back,” orders the cameraman.

 _Click, flash_.

“Okay, I think Victor should sit on the stool.”

“Like this?”

“Lean a bit to the left.”

_Click, flash._

“Look up, now?”

Victor’s not thinking, not concentrating. He feels the lights shining on him, brightly, shifts his position according to the cameraman’s requests, but he feels passive, like he doesn’t have control. He feels like he’s being submerged, all sparks and currents sputtering away and fading.

He wants to feel waves of energy actively running through his mind and his heart. He wants to feel electric.

The suit he’s modeling is comfortable, but he wishes he were somewhere else, wishes to break out of it. The blinds are closed as to not let in excess light, but he looks toward the windows anyway, imagining he can see outside, into the spaces between the buildings, all the way out to Brooklyn across the East River, into Yuuri’s hair salon, into which he is certain the sun is shining.

The hair stylist rushes over to tuck a strand back into place on his head, and the makeup artist dabs a bit of powder on his nose.

“We’re trying the next outfit, let’s keep it moving.”

 

_2:00 pm._

“Do you still teach those kids?” asks Chris, rather loudly, as they are changed into new outfits for the fourth time, hair touched up, folds of fabric pinned into place.

“Shh,” replies Victor. “Only you know about that. I don’t want anyone following me to the rink and taking pictures.”

“So you _are_ still—”

“Teaching kids ice skating? Yeah. Tuesday and Thursday evenings.” Victor has been teaching beginner ice skating for five years now, and loves it. It gives him a break from the often-tiring world of fashion, allows him to smile and have fun with people who will laugh with him, and not simply for the sake of a selfie. Not that he minds taking selfies with fans, but he does need a rest at times. He wonders if Yuuri knows how to skate, and if he does, if he’d ever go skating with him. Or if he doesn’t, if he’d ever like to learn.

“Imagine,” marvels Chris. “Being taught by Victor Nikiforov.”

“It’s not like they know who I am.” _Imagine_ , thinks Victor _, if Yuuri Katsuki was taught skating by Victor Nikiforov._

“Do the mothers flirt with you? Sitting in the bleachers and whispering about your—”

“Hell no, Chris,” says Victor, scrunching his nose until he starts laughing.

“I wouldn’t blame them.”

“ _Chris._ ”

“What? I can be appreciative.”

“You have a boyfriend.”

Chris laughs. “You’re not my type anyway, Victor. Did I tell you we got a cat?”

“You and your boyfriend?”

“Yeah. His name is Pinot.”

“You named your cat Pinot? Like the wine?”

“We like wine.”

“I’m sure.”

 

 _6:30_ _pm._

Victor is exhausted when they finish, his legs hurting from standing for so long and holding poses in uncomfortable positions. He walks out with Chris, but he wants nothing more than to curl up in his sofa and watch a movie with Makkachin. One day, he hopes that it won’t only be them.

“Are you going to go see the fireworks tomorrow?” asks Chris.

 _Oh_. Victor had nearly forgotten that it was the fourth of July. He hasn’t gone out to watch fireworks in years. He doesn’t want to go alone, so maybe he’ll forget about it. It’s always the same, every year, isn’t it?

“I don’t think so,” Victor answers.

"Are you just going to watch them from your window or something?"

"My windows face the wrong way for the fireworks."

Chris makes a pained face. “You could come with me and my boyfriend.”

“That’s alright.” He doesn’t want to intrude.

“You sure?”

Victor smiles and nods. He would feel a bit uncomfortable. Not because of Chris, but because he would feel out of place. Lonely. This isn’t something he really wants to admit. Chris looks at him oddly, then shakes it off.

“Do you want to see pictures of Pinot?”

“Sure.”

 

_8:05 pm._

Victor’s phone buzzes on the counter as he fixes up his dinner. It’s unexpected, and he smiles, laughs, the sound echoing across the nearly empty apartment. Makkachin barks, coming into the kitchen. “Did you see, Makkachin?” says Victor. “Look.”

**My best friend ditched me for his other friends for the 4th of july. Do you want to see fireworks?**

_8:06 pm._

Yuuri paces back and forth in his apartment, phone in hand, his eyes fixated on the screen. He wishes there was the option of deleting sent texts. Or at least of editing them. They’ve known each other for, what? Three days? Are they at the fireworks step? Is there a fireworks step? What does Yuuri want, anyway?

That’s a stupid question.

Yuuri knows what he wants. He also knows what he can and cannot get. And he knows that this text makes it seem like Victor is within his league, that they’re in the same playing field. He feels silly just rereading himself. He doesn’t want to delete the conversation, though, because he likes looking back at Victor’s texts. He sounds desperate, and he winces at himself.

His phone buzzes, and he jolts.

 **With you?** texts Victor.

 _No, with Yurio,_ Yuuri’s tempted to write back, but he restrains himself.

**Yeah**

Victor is typing a response.

 **If you can’t that’s absolutely fine, don’t worry about it,** Yuuri continues, panicking.

There are two feelings nagging at him, one hoping against hope and the other telling him not to. _Set your expectations low so that you don’t get disappointed_ , says the latter. Yuuri tries to shake it off. He didn’t go to see fireworks last year either. It’s not like he’s missing out on anything major. In the end, this is Phichit’s fault for going with his co-workers.

Yuuri had invited Phichit over for dinner, only to learn that he would be spending his day at a party with Guang-hong, Leo and Seung-gil. Phichit had apologized profusely, even inviting Yuuri to go with them, but Yuuri doesn’t know them very well, and had kindly refused.

Which therefore led to Yuuri being alone for the Fourth of July. He stops blaming Phichit. This is his own fault.

A notification pops up on his screen.

 **I’d be delighted to!** texts Victor.

Yuuri’s eyes widen, and he takes a deep breath. He sits down in the middle of the carpet. He’s somehow amazed with himself. Who else gets the opportunity to cut Victor Nikiforov’s hair, have tea with him, then see fireworks together within the same week?

 _His past partners probably got even more,_ fills in his mind helpfully. Yuuri shoves that thought away.

In truth, no one knows much about Victor Nikiforov’s romantic life. No one knows more than what Victor discloses himself about his personal life. The tabloids rarely cover him, and he seems to lead a very private existence despite his fame. Yuuri admires this about him. He also wonders if Victor is currently seeing anyone.

He’s just wondering, of course.

He texts Victor a grinning emoji.

**Do you want to go to the bridge park and see them there? I’ll bring us dinner**

Yuuri grins. **Sure!**

**Do you want me to come by your place? Then we could walk there together**

Yuuri raises a hand to his mouth, holding back a laugh of amazement. He shakes himself out of it. **It’ll be out of your way, don’t worry about it** , he answers.

**It wouldn’t be out of my way**

Yuuri clutches the phone tightly against his chest, and beams at the ceiling. **That would be nice, yes**

**We’ll leave early, ok? It’ll get crowded really quickly**

**That’s fine!**

**Perfect <3**

Yuuri at first thinks that he’s imagining the emoji. He closes the app, opens it, looks again. Sure enough, it’s there. A little red heart. Of course, it may be meaningless. He hopes it isn’t. He texts Victor the nearest intersection, so that they can meet there.

Yuuri’s heart flutters, and he feels light, airy, wonderful. Whatever this is, between him and Victor Nikiforov, he’s not sure he entirely deserves it, but he’ll take it. He’ll take it and cherish it for as long as possible. When concerning Victor, he wants to take as much as he can.

He is also not brave enough to take as much as he can. It’s conflicting.

He shouldn’t be risking anything. It’s only been three days, after all.

 

_7:30 pm. Thursday, July 4 th._

The salon is closed for the holiday, so Yuuri has slept in. He’s binge-watched all of the Captain America movies to get into the patriotic mood. He’s done his laundry so that his home smells less like socks and more like the air freshener he bought the day before. He’s cooked a pot of pasta so that he doesn’t have to cook later in the week.

He’s just received a text from Victor.

He has his shoes on and a light sweater tied around his waist, and he heads out, making sure to lock the door.

Victor is waiting for him under the stop sign at the corner, and waves to him as he sees him approaching. It’s a gesture that makes Yuuri smile.

“Hi,” breathes Yuuri, suddenly feeling a bit flustered.

“Hello,” replies Victor, breaking into a grin. “Are you ready to go?”

Victor is wearing a large, olive-colored backpack. It pairs nicely with the rest of his outfit, rolled up jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt. Victor doesn’t know how to not look good.

“What’s in there?” Yuuri asks.

“Food. And two blankets,” replies Victor. “One to sit on and one to cover us up.”

“Oh.” Yuuri scratches his head. “I didn’t even think of that. It’s been some time since I’ve gone out to see fireworks with someone.”

“Not last year?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Really?” Yuuri asks incredulously, and Victor nods. He would have thought that anyone would have wanted to see fireworks with Victor Nikiforov, but then again, what does he know about Victor outside of his career? Yuuri knows some fun facts—where he was born (St. Petersburg), his favorite color (magenta)—but in total this doesn’t amount to much. It’s all information he’s gathered from small interviews that Victor’s done. Victor doesn’t like to disclose details on his private life.

The walk to the park is awkward at first. Yuuri’s never been good at starting conversations.

They slowly break into a rhythm, though, with Victor occasionally asking a question, Yuuri answering, and vice versa. It’s peaceful. It smells like smoke and barbeque on the streets, and the atmosphere between them doesn’t feel strained but relaxed, the silent moments strange at the beginning but not uncomfortable. There are a few other people on the streets, and the sounds of voices, laughter, cars, ring out on the sidewalk. Yuuri notices out of the corner of his eye that Victor is staring at him. He turns to look at him, but Victor quickly turns away.

That’s when Victor Nikiforov trips.

Yuuri panics, and impulsively rushes over to him, trying to hold out his arms to keep him from falling. It’s too late. Victor drops onto the sidewalk on his hands and knees. Yuuri is there immediately, cursing under his breath, taking Victor’s hands into his and brushing the dirt and fragments of concrete off of his palms, gripping Victor’s shoulders tightly to look him in the eye.

“Are you okay?” asks Yuuri frantically.

Victor doesn’t answer immediately. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he says after a few moments.

“Are you sure? Are you cut anywhere?”

“No, no, I don’t think so. I’m okay.” He takes Yuuri’s wrists, pulling him up with him. His cheeks are bright red, and Yuuri starts to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I just didn’t expect—”

Victor bites his lips to hide a smile. “Are you laughing at my pain, Yuuri?”

“No, I just—” Yuuri snorts, and the sound isn’t pretty or delicate, but he sees Victor cover his face with his hands, and somehow everything becomes even funnier.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” whines Victor, drawing out the _i_. “You’re _paining_ me.”

They continue walking, but it’s easier for Yuuri to speak now.

A small flower unfurls slowly inside of him.

 

_8:00 pm._

The show doesn’t start for another hour at least, but there is barely any room left in the park. They squeeze into the first available spot, and Victor lays out one of the blankets, dropping his bag onto it and taking off his shoes. Yuuri takes off his as well, and sits down. They sit close to each other, which is unavoidable, because of the little space they are given, but it’s comfortable, and Yuuri feels a peaceful warmth rise across his face.

“I hope you don’t mind pirozhki again,” says Victor sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I had Yurio pack us a few different kinds.”

“I don’t mind,” replies Yuuri, a bit too quickly, and Victor laughs. He takes out a large paper bag from his backpack, sets it between the two of them. It smells divine. Yuuri wonders what he’s done to get this lucky.

“I didn’t bring plates or anything, but we have napkins.”

“We’ll manage.”

“Take as many as you want,” says Victor.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Victor Nikiforov.”

“Should I take some for myself before you devour them all?”

“That would probably be a good idea.”

Yuuri grabs a few, closes his eyes, takes the first bite. The pastry melts against his tongue, the savory taste of the meat filling his mouth pleasantly, and he sighs. He opens his eyes, and Victor is watching him expectantly. “Mmmh,” says Yuuri, smiling with his mouth closed.

“Are they good?” asks Victor.

Yuuri swallows. “Of course they are. They’re incredible.”

“New favorite food?” teases Victor.

“Hm.” Yuuri considers this. “Almost.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah. Almost.”

“There’s something better than Plisetsky’s pirozhki?”

“Monday.”

Victor gives him a questioning look, raising an eyebrow. “Monday isn’t a food.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Monday, I’m taking you to eat my favorite food with me.”

Victor grins at this. His eyes sparkle brightly in the sunset. “Deal,” he says. “Can I know what it is?”

“No.”

“Wow, Yuuri. I didn’t know you could be so—”

“Sly? Secretive?”

“Selfish.”

“Selfish, for not revealing my surprise?”

“Oh—I’m not good with words, Yuuri.”

“Me neither,” replies Yuuri. “This will work out fine.”

“This?”

Yuuri blushes, tries to cover his expression behind a mouthful of pirozhki. “This. Whatever this is.”

Victor takes a pastry from the bag, placing it lightly on the napkin in his hand.

“What do you want this to be, Yuuri?”

Yuuri has trouble getting the food down this time. He looks away. “I don’t know.”

Victor says nothing.

“I’d like to get to know you better, Yuuri,” he says after a while.

Yuuri is surprised. He turns toward Victor, who is offering him a small, nervous smile, and Yuuri returns the expression. “I’d like the same,” he answers.

“While we’re waiting,” says Victor. “Let’s play a game.”

“What kind?”

“I’ll ask you a question, and you’ll answer it, unless you don’t want to of course, and then you’ll ask me a question, and I’ll answer it.”

Yuuri hesitates. His heart rate picks up. He’s a bit nervous. It’s not every day he gets to reveal himself to Victor Nikiforov, and he’s afraid that something he says might throw Victor off, might deter him, might send him away. He doesn’t want this.

It’s also not every day he gets to find out things about Victor Nikiforov.

This second point convinces him, and he agrees to the game. Victor begins.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” replies Yuuri. He knows how old Victor is, so he doesn’t bother with that particular question. “What do you like to do besides modeling?”

“Figure skating,” answers Victor after a moment. He smiles at Yuuri. “I’m not a professional. I can’t do the fanciest spins, or anything. I just used to skate when I was younger, and...”

Yuuri didn’t know this. Victor is apparently even more amazing than Yuuri originally thought. “And?”

“And I teach little kids how to skate.”

Yuuri smiles warmly. This is a side of Victor that he had no idea about. It feels like finding a gem buried deeply inside a wall of stone. “That’s great,” he says. “I like to skate as well. I haven’t skated in years, though.”

“Maybe we could go skating together some time.”

“Maybe.” If Victor decides to continue this for that long. This statement gives him hope.

“What do _you_ like to do, besides styling hair?”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. “I don’t know.” He’s never really given it much thought. He feels like he works, watches TV, hangs out with Phichit, and not much else.

“Do you like to sing?”

Yuuri laughs. “I don’t really sing.”

Yuuri thinks he notices a faint frown cross Victor’s face, but it disappears within seconds.

“Are you dating anyone?” asks Victor. He says it so quickly that Yuuri almost misses it.

“What?”

“Um, I just—”

“Oh,” says Yuuri again, and he tenses, heat rising from his chest into his neck and over his cheeks and ears. “No, I’m not.” He pauses, weighing whether or not he should ask Victor the same. In the end, he does. “Are you?”

“No,” says Victor. “The last time I was in a serious relationship was a few years ago.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Yuuri is shocked, but at the same time ecstatic. He hopes, against all hope.

Yuuri continues the game. “What’s your favorite city, of the ones that you’ve been to?”

“Barcelona.”

The rest of the hour passes by like this, Yuuri finding out more about Victor and about his dog, Makkachin, and Yuuri telling him about his family, his parent’s home in Japan. He feels at ease.

 

_9:00 pm._

A first light shoots across the dark sky, popping and crackling in bright white sparks. Victor straightens up. “Yuuri!” he exclaims. “It’s starting!”

“I know, I know,” replies Yuuri, smiling. Victor’s eyes are turned toward the sky, his expression giddy, childlike, pure.

The fireworks come out at first one by one, each met with cheering from the crowd in the park.

Yuuri doesn’t exactly remember when Victor had started leaning his head on his shoulder, but it’s not uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want it to stop. They’re both covered in the second blanket, warm and cozy, protected from the breeze blowing in from the East River.

The explosions come faster then, reds and purples mixing with bright, elegant whites, sparks falling into the river and lights dancing in Victor’s eyes. It’s beautiful.

Victor wraps an arm around Yuuri’s waist, and Yuuri beams, the noise of the firecrackers almost deafened by the sound of his own heart.

They sit like this, leaning against each other, for the rest of the show, until the finale, when Victor sits up straight again and cheers in delight for the immense patterns bursting in the sky, the final stroke of light metamorphosing into a massive, shining flag that has Yuuri grinning brightly.

He steals a glance at Victor when it’s over, and Victor is gazing right back at him, with embers in his eyes and stars in his smile.

 

_10:25 pm._

Victor walks back with Yuuri, and stops at the same corner as where they met up.

“I guess I’ll see you Monday?” asks Victor.

“Yeah,” says Yuuri. “That sounds good.”

“Okay,” says Victor. He keeps standing there. He raises his arms a bit, awkwardly, then puts them back down.

“Are you waiting for something?” teases Yuuri.

“Um. No,” replies Victor. “I’ll just—”

Yuuri hugs him, wrapping his arms around the small of Victor's back. “I’ll see you Monday.”

 

_11:58 pm._

Just before going to sleep, Yuuri opens his phone and searches up a list of the best hair salons in Brooklyn. He frowns. Yu-topia isn’t among the first. It’s not even in the top twenty. It is, in fact, number twenty-six or twenty-seven, which really isn’t bad, but this means that there are twenty-five or twenty-six other places that Victor could have gone to. Without having to look as far down the list.

Of all the best places, he wonders why Victor chose Yu-topia.

He doesn't dwell on this for too long, though. In moments, he falls asleep, sparks still flying behind his eyes, Victor's smile illuminating his mind.


	4. Katsudon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you had to wait for so long for this chapter! I had a lot of schoolwork I was busy with and didn't get a chance to update... I hope you enjoy this latest installment!  
> This chapter comes with more art by [@del-for](http://www.del-for.tumblr.com) on tumblr! Link will be in the end notes!

_11:30 am. Monday, July 8 th._

One day, Yuuri thinks, he might want kids. But there has been absolutely no point when he has been jealous of Yuuko for her triplets, who he loves with all his heart, of course, but are also the most energetic children he’s ever encountered. Which may be a good thing at times, but they’re a bit much for a Monday morning. This time, though, he honestly should have expected their excitement. He doesn’t know why it even merely comes as a surprise. _Oh_ , he’s tired already. Yuuri takes a deep breath and smiles.

 “Yuuri, Yuuri!”

“Mommy told us you cut Victor Nikiforov’s hair!”

“We loved Victor Nikiforov’s hair.”

“We _love_ Victor Nikiforov _so_ much.”

“Why did you cut his hair?”

“Was he beautiful?”

“Did he smell nice?”

“Did you… _touch him?_ ”

Their voices blend into one loud sound as Yuuri tries in vain to answer their questions, in the end just giving up and flashing a tired smile at all of them.

“ _GIRLS!_ ” yells Yuuko sharply. “Hold still, or all _your_ hair will get chopped off!”

“Sorry, Mommy.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry. Did he have pretty eyes?”

“ _Lutz!_ ”

“ _What_ , Mommy?”

“I told you to st—”

“It’s okay, Yuuko,” laughs Yuuri. He’s used to it. Mari, who is watching from the front, rolls her eyes fondly. Sara and Michele Crispino, siblings who have been working at Yu-topia for nearly two years now, smile with some strain as they attempt to resettle Axel and Loop into their chairs. Yuuko watches over all of them, her expression wary but loving.

It always takes much longer than it should to cut the triplets’ hair. The main challenge is keeping them from turning around every few seconds, keeping them from moving as they talk excitedly to Yuuri and to each other. Each one of them feels like three children, and despite how cute they are, despite how much Yuuri loves them, he is always very grateful to see Yuuko take them back.

_12:25 pm._

“Are you seeing him again soon?” whispers Yuuko after her daughters are finished, as to not let them hear.

“Tonight, actually,” says Yuuri, beaming.

Yuuko raises an eyebrow, her eyes glinting. “Wow.”

“Not like _that_ , we’re just having dinner.”

Yuuko laughs. “I know. You know you’re super damn lucky, right?”

“I know.”

Yuuko had been involved in modeling as a teenager, although at a much smaller scale, mostly in ads for large retailers like Target or Old Navy. Once, she had wanted to meet Victor Nikiforov herself, perhaps even get to his level in the industry. She quickly abandoned that dream, realizing that that side of the modeling world was not for her, although her admiration for the business stayed with her.

Yuuko hugs him tightly.

“I’ll have to gather them up now,” she says, turning away as she runs her fingers through her bangs. “ _Axel!_ What did I tell you about not touching other people’s hair?!”

Michele messily pries Axel off him, while Loop falls over in a fit of high pitched giggles, and Lutz takes a selfie.

“Lutz, that’s not our phone,” begins Yuuko sternly, and Yuuri bites his lip.

Lutz tries to stuff the phone into her pocket.

“Lutz, that’s _not our phone._ Whose phone is that, Lutz?”

“Mine now.”

“I swear to god— _Lutz, you are not getting any sweets today or for the rest of the week if you don’t—”_

“Michele, have you seen my phone? I think I put it down somewhere,” calls Sara from the back room.

“I’ve got it,” sighs Yuuko, tearing it out of her Lutz’s hands as she wails. “Thank you so much for everything.”

“No problem,” Sara replies, laughing.

“Best of luck, Yuuri!” calls Yuuko as the triplets pull her out the door. “You’ve got this!”

“Thank you!”

The bell chimes loudly as they leave. Yuuri, Sara and Michele heave an immense, collective sigh of relief, and get back to work.

_7:30 pm._

**Meet me up same place as last time** , texts Yuuri, his thumbs flying across the keyboard as he rushes out of the hair salon. **I’ll be there in 45 min**

**Sounds good! <3**

Victor always answers him immediately.

Yuuri runs home, showers thoroughly, scrubbing vigorously at his body to get rid of _everything possible,_ smells himself, runs the pads of his fingers against his cheeks to make sure that there’s no stubble. He doesn’t usually get much facial hair in the first place, but he wants to look his best.

It’s not like they’re going to such a fancy place either.

He just wants to look nice. For Victor.

He feels giddy as he admits it, even in his head, and he mouths it, just for the hell of it. _I want to look nice for Victor_. The sentence shoots sparks up his spine, delights him.

Yuuri slicks his hair back, spraying it with the fruity hairspray again. He looks for the mascara that Phichit gave him, and can’t find it. His cabinet is a mess, and he’s a bit scared that if he searches too hard, all the creams and bottles that he has in there, in addition to the shelves themselves, will fall out. It’s an old apartment, with old furniture. He closes his cabinet, and just curls his eyelashes instead. It doesn’t look too bad.

He looks pretty good, actually, he realizes when he puts his glasses on. Good enough for Victor? Probably not, but good nonetheless.

_8:15 pm._

Yuuri checks the address they’re headed to, and goes out.

Victor is already there waiting for him, a small bag slung over his shoulder, phone in his hand.

“How are you on this fine evening?” asks Victor.

“I’m good. Do you always talk like that?”

“Not really. I’m trying to impress you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” smiles Yuuri, and Victor laughs brightly. “I just want you to be yourself.”

“Oh. Thank you,” says Victor, and he sounds oddly relieved. “Shall we go?”

 “Sure.”

 

_8:20 pm._

“I have something for you,” blurts Victor suddenly, as they’re walking toward the restaurant. Yuuri looks at him in surprise.

“I didn’t ask you for anything,” he says, eyes wide.

“I know. It’s not much,” says Victor, and he’s looking away now, and rummaging through his shoulder bag. Even in the dim evening light, Yuuri can tell that he’s blushing, and his curiosity peaks.

Victor takes out a small box.

“I was passing by a store earlier today, and I saw this and thought you might like it.” Victor hands Yuuri the box. It’s a plain box, small and white, and whatever’s inside of it rattles softly as Yuuri shakes it lightly.

“What is it?”

“Open it,” smiles Victor.

Yuuri opens the box to find a small bracelet inside, made of two leather cords that twist together to form a single band. The two ends are attached with a metallic clasp. Yuuri stares at it, warmth blossoming in his heart.

“It’s very simple,” Victor starts, “but I thought you might… I don’t know. I just saw it in the window and thought it was your style. I can return it if you don’t like it. I can—”

“Victor, what makes you think I don’t like it?” Yuuri’s heart is pounding. He’s never heard it this clearly before. He wonders if Victor can hear it.

“You do like it?” asks Victor, and he sounds so unsure yet so hopeful, and it’s terribly endearing, and Yuuri realizes how hard he’s falling, how fast.

“I love it,” says Yuuri, biting his lip, heart thundering in his chest. “Can you help me put it on?”

“Of course!” Victor beams.

Yuuri thus finds himself standing under a lamp-post in the soft light of the setting sun, with a smile on his face and Victor Nikiforov gently holding his hand, clasping the band over his wrist with fingers trembling so slightly that Yuuri could almost be imagining it, but he’s not; he knows he’s not.

“There you go,” says Victor.

“Thank you,” whispers Yuuri.

It’s the tension between them as they stare into each other’s eyes that tells Yuuri that there’s more between them now, something other than a simple friendship blooming in the cracks in the sidewalk at their feet. Yuuri tears his gaze away, shyly, but he still sees the buds pushing through the concrete.

Yuuri leads the way to the restaurant, Victor walking by his side or close behind him. The quiet is comfortable, easy, lending itself well to light conversation.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not telling you, remember?”

Victor laughs. “Fine.”

_8:30 pm._

They arrive at the steps of a small Japanese restaurant, with red paper lanterns hanging over the sidewalk and warm aromas spilling out into the streets. It’s a hot night, but a breeze wraps around them like a cool silk scarf. Victor moves his hand up to grasp Yuuri’s arm, just for a brief moment, and Yuuri sees him close his eyes and breathe in deeply.

“Oh my god, Yuuri, this place smells amazing.”

“This is my favorite place.”

Yuuri walks up first, reaching out a hand to Victor, who takes it with a lopsided smile, and together, they walk into the restaurant. As they seat themselves at a table near the window, Yuuri watches as Victor drowns himself in the scents, loses himself in the sweetness and tang of the steam that hovers through the air.

Yuuri orders for them both, trying not to smile at the confused gaze that Victor shoots him as he speaks quick, quiet Japanese to the waitress.

She returns within a few minutes, carrying on a tray two steaming bowls of rice, egg and breaded pork cutlet.

And _god_ , he hasn’t had this in nearly a year. The meat melts in his mouth and the flavors burst over his tongue.

“This is _so good_ ,” moans Victor, and Yuuri grins.

They’re halfway through their meal when Victor suddenly grasps both his hands tightly and leans in closer.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” says Victor in a breathy whisper, and Yuuri hopes, just for a second.

“I think…” begins Victor.

“What?”

“I think this is even better than pirozhki.”

Yuuri laughs lightly. He’s amused, but it’s not what he had been hoping to hear, and he feels a bit of a mess on the inside, a spring coiled up but held back, stuck in a position of tension.

The meal is peppered with small talk, but it’s difficult to get anywhere. Yuuri’s new to this. He doesn’t know what to do, how to ask. Victor’s hand is lying there, on the table, just out of reach, and it would be easy to reach out and grasp it, but he doesn’t.

Yuuri talks about his work, about food, about little things that pop into his mind now and again, making occasional eye contact with Victor. Victor, who seems fine, picks off a last grain of rice from the bowl and smiles, his stomach growling in satisfaction.

“Yakov would kill me if I ate this every day,” he says, chuckling. “It would be worth it.”

 

_9:15 p.m._

“My mom used to take me here for katsudon when I won things,” says Yuuri as they walk out, his hands in his pockets and his face to the sky. It’s hard to see the stars in the city, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not there. They hide behind the clouds, twinkling in a realm of possibility.

“What would you win?”

“Figure skating competitions, mostly. Just at the local level, of course. I stopped at the beginning of high school.”

“That’s still something.”

“I guess.”

 

"You know, I used to compete too. Back in Russia. I think I must have stopped when I was around that age as well. We're more similar than you think, Yuuri."

"You didn't mention that you used to compete, when we were talking last time."

"Just a bit," laughs Victor. "Not nationally or anything. I was actually hired for a youth sportswear company around that time. That's when I stopped."

He is gradually realizing that despite how much of an admirer he thought he was, he doesn’t know everything about Victor Nikiforov. Victor Nikiforov has secrets too, and here—here is the clear-cut distinction between Victor Nikiforov and the Victor he is getting to know: the secrets. The life that Victor has that he safeguards, that he shades away from the limelight. The personal details that Victor hasn’t told anyone—the things he might choose to tell Yuuri, like this, or that he might choose to keep to himself, which is fine as well. It humanizes him. It makes it all a bit easier, somehow. Together, they’re oiling the gears.

Yuuri pictures Victor, skating with the children, holding their arms up, helping them pick themselves up off the ice, and he smiles. It’s a sweet image.

“I haven’t won anything today, obviously,” says Yuuri sheepishly, staring down at his feet. He lightly kicks a pebble down the sidewalk.

“What?”

“I haven’t won anything. Even though we’ve had katsudon.”

“I’d say you’ve definitely won something,” insists Victor, and Yuuri scoffs.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, you’ve won me over; that’s for sure,” says Victor, smiling nervously down at him.

Yuuri grins widely, looking away, his face heating up. And he starts laughing; he can’t help it—it’s all so surreal, and everything he could have ever possibly wanted, and he has to place his hand over his mouth to keep his jaw from trembling too hard.

“Are you okay? Yuuri, are you—”

“I think you’ve won me over as well, Victor.”

“Oh,” says Victor, as he begins laughing. He stretches his arms awkwardly over his head. “Come here, Yuuri,” he says gently, reaching out an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and pulling him towards him. Yuuri’s arm moves hesitantly to Victor’s waist, fingers fumbling with the thin fabric of his tee-shirt, and they walk that way until they reach the intersection by Yuuri’s apartment.

Neither of them lets go immediately. The night is warm, a bit sticky from the humidity, and a veil of sweat coats their skin, but still, neither moves his arm. A van passes by, then a police car, sirens blaring loudly in the subdued sounds of the night. Scents of grilled meat and Italian food drift their way, hints of weed and cigarettes folded into the mix. Everything around them is completely normal, and yet Victor Nikiforov is here beside him, holding him tightly at his side, Yuuri’s own fingers resting over tight muscle that he would never have dreamed of one day being able to touch.

“Are you going to let me go home?” teases Yuuri.

“I don’t know,” answers Victor, lifting an eyebrow but still not budging an inch. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Um… I had a good time tonight. With you,” says Victor tentatively.

Yuuri grins. “So did I.”

“Do you think anyone’s watching?” whispers Victor suddenly, eyes flitting back and forth over the quiet street, glancing at the parked cars and the apartment windows around them.

“Watching what? Watching us?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we’re right under a streetlight, so—”

“Oh. You’re right,” cuts in Victor, leading Yuuri away from the street and into a dark corner between two buildings, a place that has escaped the accusing glare of the streetlight.

“What are you—” Yuuri begins, but then he looks up at Victor, backlit by the dim, persistent glow of the city at night, sees him bite his lip nervously and inhale shakily as he at first avoids Yuuri’s eyes, then stares directly into them with determination. His hand comes up, trembling for a moment before the tips of his fingers come to rest delicately on Yuuri’s cheek, and Yuuri’s eyes widen in surprise.

Victor tips his head nearly imperceptibly to the side. “Yuuri… is it okay if I… if I—”

 _Oh_ , thinks Yuuri.

“Yes,” he whispers, his heart fluttering, “yes, yes, y—”

Victor kisses him. It’s chaste, and it’s sweet, nothing more than a soft press of his lips on Yuuri’s own, but it’s filled with heat and longing and something else Yuuri can’t quite put his finger on. Yuuri’s arms come up to cross around Victor’s neck as Victor pulls away to breathe and smiles at him hesitantly, and Yuuri pulls him back in for another. Yuuri’s heart is bursting, soaring, and even as they both open their eyes, they remain wrapped around each other, steady, unmoving.

Victor’s thumb swipes at Yuuri’s cheek. “Are you crying?” he asks.

“No, I don’t think so, I—” Yuuri feels a tear come down his other cheek, and smiles shyly. “I guess I am. Sorry.”

Victor kisses him again. “Yuuri Katsuki, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Yuuri beams. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” answers Victor, and Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“Stop it.”

“Fine, fine. Goodnight, Yuuri.”

“Goodnight, Victor.”

“I’ll text you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, anytime.”

Victor leaves Yuuri with the ghost of his kiss on Yuuri’s mouth, and for a few moments, Yuuri continues standing there, lightly touching his fingers to his lips, reminding himself that it all was real.

* * *

_One month earlier._

_11:00 p.m. Saturday, June 1 st._

It’s not like Victor to just walk into a bar for a couple drinks, much less to do so alone. He doesn’t drink much. He tries not to, for the sake of his career.

“Fuck my career,” he whispers to himself outside of the bar. _Isn’t that the point of my being here in the first place?_ He squints up at the neon sign above his head that buzzes persistently with that jolt of electricity he himself is lacking. A group of loud college kids tumbles out of the door, one tripping over the step and landing sprawled out on the pavement, but still laughing mindlessly. Victor grimaces, and wonders if he should turn back. It was a bad idea to come here on a Saturday night, but Sunday is the only day this week during which he can afford to nurse a hangover.

He takes one last long look at the sidewalk and streets around him, takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door. The entire atmosphere hits him suddenly, the stench of bodies and alcohol and cigarette smoke and cologne coming to smack him in the face. He probably would have been better off just buying drinks at home. Maybe this was a mistake. Is he hoping for something? He’s just here to get wasted, to have the burning drinks slice away at the last of his motivation, to forget it all for one night, to imagine he’s somebody else, doing what he wants to do, having ideas of his own.

He sits at the bar and starts with a beer. He quickly tucks his hair into a bun, lowering the chances that someone might recognize him. It’s alright. The bar is dark. He glances across the room, to where a woman is standing behind a microphone on a small makeshift stage, reading what seems to be her poetry. She doesn’t speak close enough to the microphone, and her voice isn’t quite picked up. Victor strains to hear her words, but doesn’t manage to. She finishes quickly, shuffling back into the crowd, and an amateur comedian who fumbles with his jokes comes to replace her. Victor can hear him, yes, but his humor is lacking. He understands. It’s an open mic night, with no rules as to who can take the stage. He finishes his beer and orders a whiskey.

“Are you that model? Victor Nikiforov?” whispers a voice in his ear in a thick New York accent.

He turns to see a young woman staring at him, wide-eyed, her breath laced with the remnants of a few too many vodka martinis.

“No,” Victor answers curtly, turning back to face the stage again.

“You look like him,” she presses.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

She groans loudly and starts walking away. “I always see famous people when I’m drunk.”

As she stumbles out of the bar, Victor lets out a small sigh of relief. He turns back to the front of the room.

Another man walks onto the stage, wearing a white shirt partially tucked into his jeans, hair slicked back, a bit wobbly as he grasps the microphone tightly. The man briefly adjusts his glasses, then glances around the room, his gaze intense and magnetic. He cocks an eyebrow, unfastens the top button of his shirt, and flashes a coy grin at the crowd.

“I’m going to sing you a song,” he says, his lips brushing the microphone, and Victor can’t look away.

The music starts, and the man closes his eyes for a moment as he licks his lips sinfully. “Can’t keep my hands to myself,” he begins, and his voice is breathy but tantalizing, intoxicating. His hands rise up to caress his neck and his collarbones, fingers moving slowly but seductively over his shirt, pinching the fabric teasingly. He never takes his eyes off the crowd.

Victor tries to take a sip of his drink, but forgets to close his mouth, and whiskey dribbles down his chin and onto his shirt. He curses, wiping it off messily with a napkin, but doesn’t stop looking at the man on the stage.

The man whose eyes have suddenly come to rest on his. Whose hands are moving lower and lower down his body, over his hips, squeezing his ass lightly, blowing a kiss at the crowd—and the crowd screams.

Victor thinks he might have let out a small involuntary sound too, but it is drowned out by the noise of the rest of the bar.

“So come on, give me a taste,” the man continues, still watching Victor, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and grinding lightly on the microphone stand as a chorus of voices lets out a high-pitched cheer. “Of what it’s like to be next to you.”

Victor’s aim for tonight was not to get turned on by an undeniably attractive drunk man singing a Selena Gomez song, but here he is. He pinches his lower lip with his index and thumb, takes a deep breath and crosses his legs. The man shifts his gaze to the rest of the crowd, but his half-lidded, seductive eyes quickly return to meet Victor’s. It’s impossible to look anywhere else but at him, as he thrusts gently against the microphone stand, rolling his hips, as his hands move over his chest, over his face, into his hair, pushing it back, as he rolls his head back, eyes drawing everyone in, gaze like that of a swift predator. He’s got every single person in the room wrapped around his little finger, but he chooses to look at Victor, and Victor chooses to look back.

“Give me your all, and nothing else,” he sings softly. “Can’t keep my hands to myself.”

The man finishes the song in a throaty whisper, winking messily as the bar goes wild and Victor struggles not to lose his mind. He steps off the stage, nearly tripping on his way down, and disappears into the crowd. Victor doesn’t move. His fingers tremble around his empty whiskey glass, and he orders another.

He stares down into the glass, swirling it around and sniffing it. His focus is stolen for a few minutes by watching the bartender mix drinks.

“Hey there, handsome,” says a sultry voice from beside him, and Victor jumps, nearly spilling his drink again. Beside him is the man from the stage, smooth skin glistening with sweat, bright eyes sparkling at him from behind blue-framed lenses.

“Hello,” answers Victor cautiously.

“I know who you are,” says the man. “You’re Victor Nikiforov,” he whispers, leaning in closer so that only Victor can hear. His hot breath is thick with alcohol, beer and vodka and a hint of lemon. “I would recognize that face anywhere.”

“Oh,” says Victor. He can’t find the will in his mind to dispute the man’s statement.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

“Thank you. You, um. You sang well, by the way.”

“Thanks. My name’s Yuuri.” He coughs and pats his stomach a couple times. “That martini was strong,” he mutters. “Can I have another one?” he calls to the bartender behind him, who nods. “I want…” he takes a moment to count on his fingers, “four olives.”

“Sure,” says the bartender.

“I’m a bit tipsy,” says Yuuri. He is _so_ far gone. Victor is surprised he can still string together a coherent sentence.

“I can see that,” says Victor.

“I’m… Nobody knows I’m here.”

“You’re not here with your friends or something?”

“No. They left me alone tonight.”

“Why?” asks Victor. Why would anyone ever want to leave this man alone? _He_ would never, that’s for sure.

“My—” Yuuri sniffs, wiping an eye with the back of his hand. “My dog died this morning.”

“Oh,” whispers Victor, “oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I forgot about it when I was up there singing. I remember now.” Yuuri takes a napkin and blows his nose.

Victor’s never been good at comforting people. He reaches out a hand and awkwardly squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri smiles gently at him. “Can I show you pictures of him?” asks Yuuri.

“Of course.”

Yuuri takes a moment to find the photo album on his phone that he’s looking for, then beckons Victor to come nearer. “His name is Vicchan. He’s a toy poodle. Well, was.”

Victor smiles as he looks at the pictures. “He looks exactly like mine, just smaller. I have a poodle.”

“I know. I look at his Instagram sometimes.”

“Oh, okay,” says Victor, slightly taken aback. They scroll through more pictures.

Victor chuckles. “He’s adorable.”

“I miss him already,” says Yuuri, and a tear falls from his chin into his martini glass. “Do you want one of these olives? I got an extra one.”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, his voice shaky. He orders another drink and eats the olives.

Yuuri’s dog reminds him so much of Makkachin. He can’t imagine how it would feel to lose him, a friend he’s had for the most part of his life, a constant companion. “Do you want to tell me more about him?” Victor asks.

“Sure,” says Yuuri, a small smile creeping across his lips. “I…” he hiccups, “I got him after finding out you had a poodle, actually.”

“No!” exclaims Victor, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, downing his drink in two swift gulps. He passes the glass to the bartender, nods at him, and quickly gets another martini.

Victor knows that he’s famous. Yet the thought of this man, this man who he’s barely seen for the first time an hour ago—who he definitely wouldn’t mind spending more time with—knows him already, has known him for years and years, while Victor barely knows anything about him. It’s strange. And yet even though Yuuri knows who he is, he treats him and speaks to him as if he were just a regular man he met at a bar. It may of course simply be the alcohol, but Victor is grateful nonetheless. Grateful, and completely charmed.

 

_1:25 am. Sunday, June 2 nd._

“Maybe you should stop,” says Victor to Yuuri as he watches him order a drink for what seems like the hundredth time.

“Just this… this, um. This last one,” mutters Yuuri as he downs one final glass. He calls the bartender over and closes the tab. Victor closes his as well, even though he hasn’t drunk very much.

“Do you have someone picking you up?” asks Victor.

“It’s okay. I just live… over there,” he says, waving his arm in the general direction of the door. “Down the block.”

"Can you walk there?”

“Sure,” says Yuuri, swaying very noticeably as he steps down from the stool.

“I’ll walk with you, okay?” says Victor. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Somehow, Yuuri agrees, and Victor slings Yuuri’s arm over his shoulders as they walk out.

“Which way are we going?” asks Victor as they step outside.

“Ri… no, lef… Um, that way,” finishes Yuuri confidently, pointing to the right.

“Okay. You’re sure, right?”

“Yeah.”

They stop at a building near the street corner, and Yuuri lets go. “I wish I would remember this tomorrow,” he whispers. “I always forget what happened when I’ve drunk too much.”

“I wish you could remember it too,” answers Victor, and he means it.

“Why were…” Yuuri coughs and clears his throat, “why were you there tonight, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been feeling a bit burned out, I guess.”

Yuuri nods, seeming to fully understand, although it also looks like he’s about to topple onto the pavement, and Victor moves closer, just in case. “You know, I work at a hair salon,” begins Yuuri.

“Really?”

“Some people… people who come to my, um. My salon. They say that haircuts make them feel good.”

Victor pats the bun on top of his head and undoes it, letting his hair fall back over his shoulders. “You think I should get a haircut?”

“Whatever makes you feel better,” says Yuuri, who reaches out a hand to lightly touch his cheek. Victor freezes. Suddenly, he thinks Yuuri has fallen onto him, but Yuuri’s feet are steadily on the ground, his hands pressing against Victor’s shoulders. Yuuri leaves a wet, vodka-scented kiss on his cheek, then pulls away.

Victor reaches up to touch the spot, nearly paralyzed in surprise. Yuuri hands him a small, slightly crumpled card.

“If you ever want to drop by,” says Yuuri. It’s a business card. Victor thanks him.

“You’ll be alright?” asks Victor.

“I—” Yuuri hiccups, “I’ll be fine. I’m on the… the floor just there.”

“The floor just there?”

“Yeah. That one,” says Yuuri, pointing to a second story window. “I’ll be okay. Goodbye, Victor Nikiforov,” he finishes, opening the door and heading inside.

Victor stands there, under the streetlight, turning the card over in his hands.

 _Yu-topia Hair Salon_ , it reads. _Haircuts and hair transformations for a new you!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter accompanied by more amazing art of Victor Nikiforov: [click here to see it!](http://del-for.tumblr.com/post/162179598844/i-once-again-fail-at-lighting-this-is-me-trying)  
> Please give the artist lots of likes and reblogs, she did an amazing job and deserves so much love!
> 
> Again, please leave comments and kudos or come talk to me on tumblr [@dystopiansushi](http://www.dystopiansushi.tumblr.com)! I always like hearing what you think! Hope you liked this chapter!


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